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Having written in her native Spanish for most of her life, Ascen started writing in English about three years ago, and continues to learn her craft. A language teacher at Greenwich Community College, Ascen is in the middle of a degree course in Creative Writing and Spanish & Latin American Studies at the North London University.
Writing is a very important part of her life, and is a form of compulsion.. Unfortunately, like most people a very busy life means she can only do this in her spare time. Married to a romantic Roman, Ascen has two lovely cats, Pepe and Pepa.
If you enjoy the poetry, why not send a note to the author by email to hello@scribblingrivalry.com, who will forward your comments.
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The fight for freedom
The fight for freedom, freedom takes away, This forgotten land was marking your way. Your mother’s glasses, tarnished with tears, Guarded the distance for all those years. Empty chairs and beds in the empty house, Empty walls in jail thinking of her blouse: The black material, flying on the line, Smiling voices praying to be blind. Mother’s love squeezes the last moments In the visiting room, she pretends silent, To be strong, to have faith, to forgive, The hand of justice with nothing to give. The fight for freedom, nothing but despair, Brought to the big house. And in the dark air, Mother’s eyes looking at the distanced sky, Close in pain and wonder once more why. © Ascen Arriazu 2003. All Rights Reserved.
Good bye my dear son, good bye my love. Don’t let them take you, run quickly like wolf, Cross over these mountains that keep your name, But never forget them or me; the same! Good bye my dearest, fly away like wind, Do not look back, don’t think, fly determined. I don’t want you to become salt or sand. There’s enough salt in my eyes and this land. Run away my son, hide in the big caves, Take the ship, that will take you along the waves, Far away from me, to the other side, Far away from all them, safe from their sight. © Ascen Arriazu 2003. All Rights Reserved.
The intuition of your life keeps me alive. I learned you have children, you have a wife, You kept your faith, your believes, your strength. I learned you teach your sons about the length Of this umbilical cord that keep us Tied, for ever, no matter the distance. The intuition of your life keeps me alive. Keeps me under the threats of the sharp knife That God held by my throat on the same day The Civil Guards forced you to run away. © Ascen Arriazu 2003. All Rights Reserved.
On my twenty first birthday I left you. I remember the night, intense dark blue. I ventured in the forest with a torch, You, waving your handkerchief from the porch. I saw your black blouse crying from the line, Father in the kitchen sipping new wine. I pictured him diving his pain in it, Dreaming the time when we could at last meet. On my twenty first birthday I met fate, I prayed and climb the mountains desperate. I walked all night, freezing, looking behind, My courage in my feet, out of my mind, Salted tears frozen under my eyes, My arms hurting, fear driving my thighs. My cold land waved me good bye by the sea, And I knew that was my last chance to see, My father’s vines, my mother’s warm blankets, The pieces of wood from my loved forests. On my twenty first birthday I left home, Feeling something in my chest, like a bomb, Conscious of what all my past acts meant then: Depart from my family, my own end. © Ascen Arriazu 2003. All Rights Reserved.
Little NereaMy mum and dad sleep in small rooms, Through windows with bars they look at the moon. They send messages to me through the stars, Their souls travel beyond the iron bars. I keep their picture under my pillow, Pray for them before my candle I blow, And I think of them as guardian angels, I deny the truth of anything else. © Ascen Arriazu 2003. All Rights Reserved.
In the visiting roomThe time had arrived and we went inside. I distinguished his figure, his eyes bright, Looking at me from behind the thick glass, And we sat in silence thinking of us, We didn’t need words, we knew what we had: A couple of minutes were not that bad. The rest of the week I spent crying, He, counting the days, on the walls writing. Little by little my love felt strange, He looked older when the next visit came. He talked of children screaming at him, “They sing accusations in a dark hymn” “It’s nothing my love, you’re only dreaming” “No, my darling, I feel they are coming” His psychologist gave me good advice: “Culpability complex” said the wise Doctor in whom I had put all my trust. But my man kept complaining till August, Then fell in a long, intense lethargy, He stopped talking and lost his energy. In a gloomy day I received the news: He could not stand any more abuse, From the souls of those himself had killed, When we arrived, his own grampus had built. To the visiting room I went no more. My love, with the same rope, my heart had torn. © Ascen Arriazu 2003. All Rights Reserved.
The right fightI don’t know if this fight is right or not, When I think of it my throat feels a knot. All those old mothers praying to that God, Of richness, Latin words and empty hopes. I don’t see the sense of this anymore, That new hero Cid fighting this new Moor. I don’t want to know who’s going to win The land that is now so different, green Of envy of past glorious days, battles Fights with stones, fists, beer bottles. I don’t care if this war is right or not, I don’t care if the Big Ones tie the knot, As freedom is no more than just a word For those who behind bars look at the world. They are sisters, brothers, fathers, mothers, They are friends, they are sons, they are daughters Of yours and mine paying for our sins Without any end, as far as it seems. © Ascen Arriazu 2003. All Rights Reserved.
ConclusionThe conclusion of the conflict is pain, Victory is something nobody gains. The sun on the mountains bathes the valley, The neighbours look for another alley. The Spaniards look for jewels in my land, Like centuries ago very far. The new conquerors savage our towns, With new arms and uniforms colour brown. I wonder when someone’s going to act, To sign the silly papers of the pact. Parties, meetings and debates. What a waste! For politicians fake smiles to face, For us only chains of false hope and pain. Why do we waste our patience in bane? © Ascen Arriazu 2003. All Rights Reserved.
Bibliography “At the distance” by Mertxe Aizpurua and Modesta Gallastegi. Ed. Senideak. Euskalerria 2001 |
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